Page 2 of Her Dirty Biker
The casino doesn’t protect girls like me. It chews them up and leaves them raw.
At the end of the shift, I clock out and head toward the side exit, jacket hugged tight to my chest. The cool air outside should calm me, but it doesn’t.
Someone is waiting.
The blond guy from before—the Sons of Decimation one—leans against the wall near the alley entrance, half-shrouded in shadow, smoking a cigarette. He flicks it to the pavement when he sees me.
“You off the clock, sweetheart?” he asks, voice low and too smooth.
I keep walking. “Yeah.”
“Why don’t you come party with me and the boys? You look like you need a little fun.”
“No thanks,” I say, trying to pass him.
He blocks my path with his arm. Not touching me, not quite, but close.
“C’mon,” he coaxes. “Don’t be like that. You’re too pretty to go home alone.”
My heart stutters. I glance around the lot. It’s empty, quiet. My throat tightens. Then, suddenly, he’s gone. Yanked back by a fistful of his cut. Slammed against the wall with athudthat echoes through the alley.
I blink.
Diesel stands over him, one hand gripping the guy’s collar, the other curled into a fist at his side.
“She said no,” Diesel growls. His voice is calm. Too calm. “You got wax in your ears, Guardrail?”
The guy snarls, “Back off, Savage trash.”
Diesel doesn’t move. “Touch her again, and I’ll show you what trash looks like after it’s been taken out.”
He lets go and steps back.
The guy stumbles, spits at the ground, and stalks off with a curse.
I exhale, still frozen.
Diesel turns to me. His eyes, gray and sharp and unreadable, meet mine. “You good?” he asks.
My voice shakes. “Yeah. I’m fine.”
He studies me. “You don’t look fine.”
“I said I’m fine.”
A beat passes between us, the air crackles.
“You should go home,” he says finally.
“I was trying,” I shoot back.
He doesn’t smile. Just steps aside and nods toward the parking lot. I walk past him, every nerve in my body still buzzing.
I don’t know why he stepped in, but I do know one thing: that man is dangerous.
I can feel him behind me, even after I round the corner and the casino’s glow fades from view, his heat at my back.
My fingers tremble as I unlock the driver’s side door of my ancient Civic. The key jams once—twice—before sliding in, and I curse under my breath. Calm down, Willow. Just drive. Just go home and forget all of it.
